


Your Better Angels

by MorriganFearn



Series: HSWC Bonus Rounds 2014 [7]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, Gen, Humanstuck, Mafiastuck, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-04
Updated: 2014-09-04
Packaged: 2018-02-16 04:06:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2255271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MorriganFearn/pseuds/MorriganFearn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"We're still kids, numbskull," you lie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Better Angels

**Author's Note:**

> Written for tiakon's prompt in BR5: Quotes
> 
> "It takes two to make an accident" -F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby
> 
> Warnings for Blood, Death, Child Neglect, and Emotional Manipulation. Some minor mentions of body horror to the mouth, per Kurloz's usual, at the end.

When Dedushka Kozel stops showing up for the regular look around, you let it slide. He's usually in once a week, now that you're old enough to take care of yourself and your little brother. Sometimes twice a week. Bills get paid. You know that bills exist as that is basically what Dedushka Kozel does: stand in the hallway, yell for tea, and then with his goaty old man smell sit in the dinning room with reams of paper all out in from of him and his Beretta on the chair beside him.

You used to yell at Gamzee for poking it experimentally. Dedushka Kozel yelled at him that it wasn't a toy and guns were dangerous, and war was dangerous and you retreated behind your thick Shakespeare collection until the rant bout the Italian front was over.

Later, a snotty little brat in what he thinks is a trench coat and thick rimmed glasses slipping down his non-existant nose will tell you that the Russians gave up and had their revolution before ever reaching Italy. It will make you think for the first time in years about Dedushka Kozel, and maybe wonder, for the first time in your life, what _his_ mysterious life had been like, before two messed up kids had been dumped in his lap and he had to pay bills and teach them about spending money and allowances. None of these considerations, however, will keep you from bashing in the face of the kid's older brother with the butt of your MP 18 because nobody messes with your boss, and it is probably kinder than letting Latula have a crack at the scum.

Anyway, you let it slide for a few weeks, when he stops showing up. You are good at managing the money he gave you. Storing up those nickles and dimes scraped from the top of the allowance under your pillow has already been a habit, but the nice books and clothes you had your eye on become a new set of shoes for Gamzee (it's important to dress like you are good people even if Gamzee would rather run around barefoot. You can afford shoes. You are not one of those people who can't afford shoes. You get Gamzee into some long trousers a little prematurely, however, because people will notice he doesn't have socks), and food for the both of you. It works for maybe three weeks, and a bit of the fourth but you are ready, more than ready for your allowance, and the tea and the bills and the goaty smell to fill up the house when the water gets cut off.

The gas had been off for three days beforehand, but neither you nor Gamzee bother with turning on gas lamps that have flues so black that all they cast are shadows. You used to try to make shadow puppets on the walls, but that scared Gamzee too much, so you stopped. You can make do without gas. You just go to bed with the sun, or if you're desperate, on the sleepless nights, you take the gilt edged Greek Bible down from its hiding place and walk seven blocks to the electrified streets, and read until you are sleepy. It has never even crossed your mind that this might be dangerous, just as it never crosses your mind that Dedushka Kozel may have more important tasks than you. If that kind of thought crossed your mind you would be furious—what on Earth could be more important than you and your brother?!—and since you do not like being angry, you never let it enter your thoughts.

But when the water goes off, you're in a bind. You've been able to function without a stove for several days, but water is how you've been extending the soup you have made for the last week. You look at your options for survival. Normally in your neighborhood family, or friends of the family, should take you in, bring you and Gamzee up, maybe not like one of their own, but close enough to get you ready for the world. But you all don't have family here, and you're in a mostly white neighborhood—German, you think, maybe poor English, nothing more Eastern than that—while your last name is Turkish, your face could be from anywhere south of the Aegean Sea, and you speak Russian at home.

You could turn to the church, but you're not sure what church. The Bibles all around the apartment, and there are a lot of them, are all varying flavors of Eastern Orthodox, but they lean heavily towards Greek and you sort of remember Easter mass when you were very small stretching all the way into midnight. St. Euphrosyne hides in a gilt and wooden frame on the wall opposite your book case. You placed St. Feodor Kuzmich in Gamzee's room because he likes the way you tell the story you heard from Dedushka Kozel. The nearest religious building is a synagogue, and you don't know enough to be able to keep it a secret that you are goy.

You realize you're all betwixt and between. Both of you, Gamzee and you. Neither fish nor foul. Fowl. You're tying to get better at English. Turns of phrase you've got down so pat you can have fun with them. Spelling is another issue.

On Sunday, you take a deep breath, dress Gamzee and yourself in your best, and go for a walk, searching for some kind of salvation. He holds your hand, jumping whenever he hears a car, ready to hide behind anything that will give him safety. You'll give him safety. Then, when he's no longer scared, he'll be swinging around your gangling height with laughter. He's ten, you're thirteen, and you're satisfied that he looks cute and you look pitiful. You've got a plan. You'll make this work. You even managed to find socks for him, and the colors might not match, but you've done your best and will have to hope that the stars align.

The first church you come to that's doing mass is Catholic. Later you'll debate with Meulin about whether you should have gone Anglican, since the church three blocks away from this one gives out doughnuts and tea cakes. It's nothing serious, and you like where you ended up, but Meulin thinks you're serious and it makes her little nose squinch up in irritation, and she sneezes the way she does, and then gives you a lecture (when you come clean about the fact that you're jo-king) that it's not nice to make people angry just because you think it makes them cute. Meulin is a doll—pretty and easy to manipulate—but you don't know it yet.

What you do know is that Gamzee is in love. If he could marry a whole building he'd marry this church with light pouring in through the glass and paintings on the walls, and people singing. He'd not only marry the building, he'd marry the moment the congregation is full to bursting with the peace of the Lord. Some days you don't think he even sees you, because he's in so deep with this love of religion.

You're lurking in the shadows, standing and sitting when everyone else is, and mouthing along to Latin you don't know, and everyone here is much better off than you are. You weren't quite clear on your plan, but you're beginning to think that maybe you shouldn't bother trying to catch any eyes and offers of help. You could just take _things_ , particularly because while gazing at white haired matriarchs and wrinkled old grandfathers standing over multi-generational broods you're beginning to get angry. It's not a way you want to think about the world, so you figure that limiting your exposure is best.

Someone giggles, and you turn to see a girl ducking under the pew. Gamzee is trying to catch hold of her by the hem of her skirt, and she pops up on the other side, looking demure and not as though she was just goofing off during the sermon. You're impressed. Gamzee puts a finger to his lips and makes a serious 'shoosh!' noise. You catch a hint of a smile as she turns her head forward to listen attentively to the Latin.

After, as Adults are streaming out, and you're sizing up a handbag you saw with chocolate in it, the girl comes up to you and introduces herself by asking who Gamzee is. She's enchanted by the cheerful laugh and easy grin, and then stands up straight throwing her shoulders back, asking to be introduced to your parents. She likes cute things like Gamzee, so you figure on acting cute and awkward, and you stutter that they aren't around, hunching your shoulders in like you are ashamed.

"There's Dedushka Kozel," Gamzee says brightly, before frowning. "He'll be back."

"Sure he will," and you're smiling for the lie you're praying he'll believe, and for the the fact that you can see Meulin knows what an empty smile looks like.

She grins madly. "Come to dinner with us!"

You win.

That's enough food to get through Monday, if not Tuesday that you're carefully pocketing. You deflect any questions about your own life, where you live, who looks after you. You're just a friend of Meulin's. You can go ages without being noticed if you just nod smile and agree with the adults in the room.

The Priest, who is gracing this fine table, did a double take on seeing Gamzee. You suspect it's because despite your careful brushing that morning, his hair has a mind of its own and most of that mind is standing straight on end. You were rather hoping that not having had it cut in a while would make it at least lie flat, but no, it's twisting up and doing its own thing like it has always done. The Priest asks your family name very carefully, and you get Meulin to handle it because no way anyone is going to think 'Makara' is a good old Catholic family. She thinks it's Kozel which causes her mother, a huge woman who could probably crush your head between her thighs and then eat the rest, to ask a hunched man in the corner if the name is at all familiar.

Shoulders manage to lift higher, and he knocks back what you are sure is brandy. "Not a family connection. Sounds Slavic," his 's'es fly out between his teeth with extra spit, and you strive to look as innocent as possible, while you purloin a piece of pound cake. He's got burn scarring all up one cheek and riding the ridge of one eyebrow. It makes it look as though he's got red lines of blood crackling away from his eyes.

Eventually you are forgotten. There are a lot of kids here. The hostess, who is not Meulin's mother but just generally keeps house for the Priest, seems to collect children, even trying to turn the Priest into one of them. You look away when she cleans a cheek, not thinking about the smell of frying herring and smokey old tea on long afternoons with piles of paperwork and bills.

You don't even realize you're angling for a way out of here until you bump into the stairs where yet another kid with hair going the way of Gamzee is watching the proceedings. He looks at you, and you look at him, and then he looks at the Priest who is pontificating, much to the annoyance of some kid who was introduced carefully to you as definitely not Father Vantas' son (Later, you'll meet Kankri's younger cousin, and no one bothers to carefully specify that he is definitely not Meulin's brother, so you suspect that Karkat actually is a cousin).

"Aren't they all lotherth?" the kid grins, and you see a resemblance between him and the scarred man.

You shrug. You are the guest after all. It's best not to comment.

"You know, I thaw you nab that napkin and half the loaf over there," the kid's grin has slid away, and he's glaring now, a quick switch, and he could be the end of your plan.

"Oh did you, now?" you're not as tall as some—Ma Leijon, for a start—but this boy's a shrimp, and you'll use your height to intimidate.

It doesn't work. He's like a terrier, this kid, with his hair too long and fluffy, and a mind too sharp and knowing. As if to prove nothing scares him, his hand flashes to the edge of your trousers and your hem lifts to reveal that while you may have found socks for Gamzee, you weren't so lucky for yourself. "Thought tho. You're here to thteal, aren't you?"

A baldfaced lie can save many situations, but if you say you're not, he might make you eat whatever he's seen you filch, and then this afternoon will have been for nothing. "If I am, would it be any part of your business?"

"There'th honey in the kitchen," the kid looks sly. "Let'th thee if we can get thome."

You can't exactly carry honey home, and when you point out that you don't want it, the kids scowls again. "Oh c'mon. Why ith everyone like thith? All I want ith a little. I'll help you get out of here without raithing a futhth."

He's got sixteen different moods and you aren't in the mood for a single one of them. On the other hand, you're always interested in secret ways in and out of situations. "See, my problem with this inspired plan of yours is all about the sweet fact that _I'm_ the one with bread on me."

"No problem. Nooneth in the nurthery right now. We'll jutht put everything there, and then get the honey."

He leads you up the stairs. Gamzee is currently trying to fall asleep in the Priest's lap, so it can't be too bad to leave him out of your sight. Besides, you're a little curious as to why a house ostensibly owned by the Catholic Church would have a nursery. The room is large, with two cribs, unoccupied, and a bunch of blocks all around, several thick books that at your place would almost certainly be bibles, a crucifix hanging from one of the wood panels of the wall, and a few new paint patches on that wood that suggest that someone who grew up here used to write on the walls. Personally, you're proud of Gamzee's work with charcoal from the wood stove at home, but you can see the appeal of repainting everything once every so often.

The important thing is the window letting in afternoon sunlight, because it also gives a good view of the apple tree and you're pretty sure you could jump from here to there. You're pretty sure Gamzee can jump from here to there.

The kid beckons you over to a small table perfect for tea if you're four years old, and then slams his hand against a panel in the wall next to it. The wood boards jiggle, and he gets his fingers in around one that seems looser than the rest before hauling it off the wall, revealing a small space already occupied by a tommy gun. You're not terribly familiar with other houses, or even other families, but you'd gotten the impression that Dedushka Kozel's approach to household weaponry is not the average approach to weaponry. You do go to school, after all, and you know most of the people there would be shocked by heavy weaponry. Which means this gun has a story to it.

"What's a tommy gun doing in the nursery?"

"Huh? Oh, my dad jutht thathhed it here for thecurity if the copth thow up," the boy replies, before adding quickly: "Don't worry. He doethn't think anyone knowth about thith. He'th not going to go looking for it at Thunday dinner."

You divest yourself of bread and hide the pound cake slices with the napkin. Getting the apples you grabbed from the fruit bowl are going to be tricky. The group of nuts from the finger bowls are an easy transfer, and you think the carrots are safe in your pockets, still. But while you're counting up your loot and hoping the boy doesn't catch on that it isn't just bread going in, you spare some thought to the unusual nature of the questions that you've heard, and the amount of brandy you spied.

"I never pegged on getting mixed up with bootleggers," you say it causally. It's a good secret, but you need something to hold over the kid's head to keep him mum on the theft of food stuff.

He just snickers. "Yeah, like you're not in that kinda of family, either."

You are pretty sure that Dedushka Kozel's best friend was only present because the old goat always would have a gun on him. It was part of his trappings, like his coat or the hat with the two points that had caused you, when you were very young, to draw pictures of him with horns. You stare at your new accomplice, hoping to get more information from the boy.

The tried and true tactic works. The kid shifts awkwardly, and rubs a skinny elbow. "You're Meulin'th friend. Her _mom_ wath okay with you. Ma Leijon ithn't okay with anyone who doethn't do thome kind of gin running. Altho," he adds shrewdly, "you know it's a Tommy gun, and I don't peg you ath having five centth for the pictureth."

"A body could have gone once in a while," you say. You saw _The Kid_ twice last year. The first time you snuck in, and the second time you took two nickles and brought Gamzee along with you. Movies with serious violence in them are difficult to find in New York, though, so it's not like you really could learn to identify guns from going to the pictures. But it's a convenient excuse, to make you look innocent.

"Mituna!" Someone yells. "MITUNA! Have you seen Meulin's frien—"

All bets are off when Mituna's scarred father walks into the nursery and sees you and Mituna contemplating the hide away. You freeze, trying to think of a way to make this look like it's not suspicious, and you learn that Mituna is the kind of guy who will take a punch for a stranger in a second. You're not used to you being the stranger.

"Dad! I wath jutht showing Ca—Kuh—uh—Meulin'th friend the old hideyhole. Did you know there'th a Tommy gun in there?" He reaches in and fishes out the offending article with surprising speed, stepping neatly in front of the purloined bits of dinner.

An eye lid twitches, and Kurloz is witness to a yelled lecture about firearms that would put Dedushka Kozel to shame. Spit is flying and Mituna is told it doesn't matter how bored he is, he's never coming back to the docks, he can babysit Sollux and _like_ it. It gets better as the lady of the house comes upstairs to see what all the fuss is about, and she lets loose on everyone. You sidle closer to Mituna, who is trying to put in the loose piece of wall in behind him while keeping his face blank and towards the shouting match.

"My name is Kurloz," you whisper, taking advantage of the torrent of too familiar arguments between long time friends bouncing back and forth between the two adults. "Just in case you had any future lies up and spinning around in that head of yours that needed a few details to get straight."

"Mituna," Mituna grins as he clicks the board back in place. "You'll owe me the honey netht Thunday."

You both go down to the end of supper. Gamzee apparently decided the boy named Kankri was a good substitute as a pillow, if the priest wasn't obliging, and that had been causing much flustered consternation. You wake your little brother by the simple method of shaking him, earning you an amazed stare from Kankri as though this mystery of child caring is supposed to be top secret knowledge.

You are sent home with courtesy, but no food aside from some carrots. Gamzee is blinking sleepy eyes and you hope he's eaten his fill. You'll figure something out tomorrow.

"Kurloz!" Meulin comes rushing up, a circular canister in hand. She's smiling like she's been told the mysteries of God will unlock for her, and her alone, when she hands you a lunch tin wrapped in brown paper. "From my mother. Well, sort of like my mother saying you were both too skinny and me saying that we always had extra green beans, and Ma thinking it's a great way to get them out of the house before Mama M forces us to eat them. I hope you don't mind. I know it's the yucky food, but could you take it, just this once? Please?"

You marshal your stunned face into something like a smile that should cover any suspicion. You know from listening to these people they're something for nothing folks, and while Dedushka Kozel was always interested in getting something for nothing more than a bit of violence, he's taught you to to be suspicious of those types, as they'll think you owe them favors later.

On the other hand, you look at Meulin's broad, pretty face and Gamzee perking up a bit at the mention of green beans—he's got a thing for green colored food, as long as you haven't tried to cook it with extending techniques. You can control the favor, and get more out of them. "Thanks be to your considerate family and fine self. Anything your mother would be blessed by needing, I'm happy to find a way to make it happen."

Meulin snorts. "That's swell, but if I'm too young to help Ma, you certainly are, Mr. Skinny Bones."

You shrug, keeping the smile in place. You need this girl to like you. Then deciding on formality to impress her, you bow before taking the tin. Gamzee waves hesitantly as you walk away.

When you turn the corner, round the priest's manse, a rock comes whistling through the leaves of the tree growing over the wall. It lands with decent accuracy a few feet ahead of you, and you stop, and look up.

Mituna waves from the nursery window, and cups his hands around his mouth to shout "Hey, numbthkull! You forgot thomething."

You tell Gamzee to watch the green beans. It's a trick you learned long ago. Keep people distracted with a Task, and they won't try to follow you. In this case you're jumping to the top of the wall, and scrabbling to the branches above. Not a feat you want Gamzee to imitate. You had enough trouble keeping him from the tops of book cases when he was small.

You edge out on a sturdy limb, holding on to those above you. Heights never bother you much, but you get queasy when you're off solid ground. "What's the commotion all for, little numbskull?"

He snickers, his shoulders shaking and then pulls out some napkins wrapped around what looks like half a bread loaf. "You forgot thith. Catch," he tosses the whole package your way and you grab desperately for the loot and then in frantic desperation for the nearest tree limb. He snickers all the while but you forgive him, sort of, you've got enough food now to last 'til Tuesday.

You use your Monday wisely. School is out for the summer, which is tricky, as Gamzee is home alone, but you've left him with the remains of the food, minus what went into the soup you made Sunday night, and a cookbook. You've got a plan, one that was formulating when Meulin told you there was no need for you to do favors for her family. If they're bootleggers, they've got money, as well as food, and you still want to get the water turned back on, and maybe the gas. You need to get them in your debt.

You consider going to Mrs. Leijon directly, but you don't have any idea where she is based out of, unlike Mituna's father who said he did work at the docks. He could be anywhere—a warehouse holding cargo, unloading ships, actually captaining a ship, who knows? And New York's docklands aren't exactly small. But you're dogged, and you remember your map of the city. They all go to that Catholic church, and are chummy enough with the whole set up that they sleep in the manse sometimes, so you assume you should try checking the nearest set of piers and work outward.

There are plenty of boys lurking around, running errands for a nickle or two. It becomes a bit of a game, slouching around, trying not to be recognized, and also trying to pick up work from under the noses of boys three years older and seventeen times more familiar with the area without getting caught. There's quite an empire to be founded here, you think. Some of the kids are clearly in loose groups, whispering to friends when you take one job or another from them, but you're sure they stick to the same areas out of habit, rather than by design. If this was your neighborhood, you'd have people making sure the appearance of strangers, especially strangers trying to elbow in on your nickles, got reported to you right away, and then you'd do something about it.

Around three in the afternoon., you've found Mituna's father at last, or at least saw his raw edged shape in a crowd, and promptly lost him amid the unloading of a steam ship carrying coal from somewhere down south. You press on, no longer taking jobs. Just mooching like any other kid, secure with the seventy five cents you've managed to collect. You find your quarry ducking into a warehouse. You follow him out of the warehouse, and as far as a ship— _Freedom's Stars—_ and see him chatting with a dame who keeps rolling dice between her fingers, apparently not caring how bad this looks for her customs and patrol uniform.

You sidle off before she can notice you. You go back to the warehouse, and begin to formulate a plan for getting in, which you notice is strangely difficult for an innocent warehouse. Large men with massive boxes are let in and out with some searching questions and paperwork. Sometimes large men with the look of employees head off to various ships to help unload. Around the front trucks are loaded and unloaded. By the side nearest the shipyard is a stack of crates, which, with a little bit of climbing and careful balancing, gives you a peek into the windows, and you can see this is one of those warehouses that has a bit of everything, but most of it in the shadowy corners of the back is liquor.

You've done your reconnaissance work, and you head home. You just need to set things up properly now. That seventy five cents in your slightly carroty pockets will come in useful. You spend every day that week at the docks, picking up more change and elbowing in on turf until you look like you belong there and there are tins in that dusty box outside the water closet that you call a larder. Five cents can add up to a lot over time.

Not enough to meet the landlord's bill, which you found on Thursday when you came back from your mission only to see Gamzee pouring over it with a little wrinkle between his eyes. Still, Gamzee is happy, even though you're spending your time out of the house. You don't worry too much, tucking him in every night and telling him stories of saints and martyrs and the miracles of death and destruction. He's content. You'll keep his home for him. He'll get his home because his smile is wide, and it's given just for you, even when you burn food or scare him with shadows on the walls.

On Sunday, you sit between Meulin and Gamzee, though she keeps walking her fingers behind your back to give Gamzee something to play with, much to the consternation of the congregation. She just grins cheekily at you. "I can't help it! He's such a cute baby."

Gamzee is ten, but you just grin, standing for the latest hymn. This earns you a slow nod from Ma Leijon. She's sitting one pew ahead of you with Mituna, and the two not-quite Vantas cousins, the elder of whom drinks in the sermon with a pious reverence you strive to duplicate, and the younger of whom just fidgets occasionally through the whole thing.

"You don't even know what he'th talking about," Mituna hisses accusingly under cover of the communion scramble.

"The vulgar tongue is my only guide," you shoot back, making the boy snicker.

Kankri, who is hissing at everyone to sit and be quiet, rolls his eyes. "That's exactly what the Father was talking about up there. The inaccessibility of language and what a shame it is. He's talking about reform of the system where Latin is no longer a necessity for understanding doctrine. Of course, if he's going to make that point, it might help if he actually read his sermon in English."

"Why? It'th pretty dull," Mituna points out, poking Kankri. "I thought you thaid it wath going to be about Revelation."

"What I said was that your fascination with that particular part of the word of God is worrying and indicates a taste for destruction that can only be the sign of an unsound mind."

You personally approve of having one language for the mysteries and another for the uninitiated. However, those who can take communion are coming back. You notice Kankri doesn't go, though he is old enough, surely, to have been confirmed and ritualized and whatever else it is these people do. You'll point this out at another time when you need to put him in his place.

At the dinner after mass, you and Mituna start quoting Revelation just to annoy Kankri. Mituna is reading his parts out of one of the big Latin Bibles, and you're inserting the Greek phrases you know, and the Russian sentences that fill in the gaps Mituna leaves for you. Meulin is laughing so hard tears are running down her chin, and you know you're getting looks from Ma Leijon, but she, it seems doesn't know enough to know that you're quoting from books that are in conflict with the ones that belong in this manse.

Mituna is picking up the thread pretty fast. You get all the beautiful passages about burning and devils, and he takes the high roads that don't speak of tortured souls but talk about the all mighty collection of the elect. He's the angels with their multihued wings, and you're the shadow lurking. It's marvelous, and you finally collapse back on the stairs together once Kankri has run off.

You finally ask the question that has been nagging at you after your week of planning, and watching schedules in the docks. "And what about your good father? Banished was he from this light and merriment for the nursery fiasco?"

"Nah. He's heading up-coatht. Canada, thith time, I think," Mituna looks to Meulin for confirmation, but she just puts up her hands. "Don't look at me. Hey, Kurloz, would you like a cookie?"

"Hey, why'th the lother get one?" Mituna complains.

So you know you've got several weeks to wait. Eventually, and sooner than you thought, _Freedom's Stars_ returns to port. It's a Wednesday, which is good, because you can see everyone trudging in and out of the warehouse, and watch the cargo get offloaded without having to worry about places to be. When you're sure the last of the cargo is heading toward the warehouse you nip out of the dock yards, and put some of your hard earned change into a telephone call to the police about a certain warehouse.

Then you're rushing. It's not so much that you've got to find Mituna's father as you have to find the right time. Too soon, and the incriminating cargo won't be out of his hands. Too late and the keepers of that communal warehouse won't have the time to hide the goods before the cops do show.

You pick your moment, and dash over to the man and the lady customs agent, who you know is more crooked than a shepherd's crook.

"Sir, sir!" You put on your most respectful face as you interrupt them. "You're Mituna's father aren't you?"

He looks harassed, and the customs lady is looking very mean. You hope your awkward more bones than skin looks get you some sympathy, and you keep control of the conversation. "I just heard from some of the kids around here: the cops are planning to give the warehouses a check through or something of the sort."

The customs lady stares at you, says the most unlady like thing, and takes off. You get some questions, hard ones, from Mituna's father, but your story has been practiced over the weeks, and you're ready with the lies and truth and vagueries. Even later, when the uniformed policemen are searching what is now a very innocent warehouse indeed, the adult Mr. Captor runs his fingers through his hair, and looks down at you.

"Thanks, kid."

"I wouldn't want Mituna's family to get in trouble," you're tired of the innocent guileless child act, and see this as the moment to strike. "I'm always around here, looking for odd jobs, cops never notice kids."

It is better to let him come to an offer on his own. That way he'll think it was his idea. But he's just nodding blankly, scanning the crowd growing ugly around the police car. It's frustrating. If he was Mituna, the quick mind covered up by the hair would have come to the proper conclusion already. You give it a little push.

"Anyway, sir," this whole act feels so unnatural on your tongue, but you're the self effacing, innocent friend of Meulin's. Just not too innocent, "I'm always happy to help. Do you need anything schlepped anywhere while all this is going on?"

He starts, frowns, and then glances at where the customs lady is talking with the cops. "Yeah actually. It would take a while, though. I can give you a few bucks for the rest of the afternoon. Would that cover how much you'd normally make?"

It does. You smile helpfully, and take your two dollars and fifty cents home at seven, along with the knowledge that you're needed back in the morning to return some boxes and crates to the hold of the ship. Gamzee gets you a heaping bowl of soup, and you notice the bread from Sunday is gone. You suspect he's beginning to try to avoid the crappy food when he can. You look at the rent due notice on the table.

A week later, you've paid that notice, with apologies to the landlord. Yes, you know it's been a month and a half since he's last seen rent. Your allowance came late. You'll pay the penalty in a bit. Dedushka Kozel will be down with the money soon.

You make sure to thank Mr. Captor for the rent money. So far, no one is questioning you because you make things happen without anyone really noticing the difference between "we need this to happen" and "Kurloz has taken care of it." On Sundays you have an easy time teasing Mituna and Meulin about the fact that you're helping and they aren't despite the fact that you're the youngest of the three, but in another month Meulin has disappeared, and she comes back three weeks later filled with enticing secrets and Mituna begins to mutter darkly that the end is coming.

In the dappled shade of late summer under that phenomenal tree in the preacher's yard, you stretch out, resting your head on Mituna's stomach after he proclaimed that you were too boney. You want the contact, and he said it was fine.

"Dad'th thaid he wantth me to get to know how to thail and deal with thips."

"Swell. We'll see more of each other round and about in the world, then," he used to be jealous of your little jobs for the family, and you don't understand why he sounds so wistful now.

He pokes the side of your neck. "Pththt. Mama M'th older daughter runth errandth at a Cabaret, and Meulin'th learning how to organize thipping manifethtth and cook bookth, and whatever, and you're even volunteering, you numbthkull. I dunno. It'th jutht me 'n' Kranky Kankri and I'm jutht realizing I'm not yet fifteen. Dad wath mining coal at my age, but I dunno if I'm ready. I dunno if I want to _be_ ready."

He's cute in a way that can give Meulin a run for her money sometimes. You roll over to poke him in the nose. "You can just bring your worries here and lay them down any old time. I'll be here for you my brother. If you're not ready alone, then let's the two of us be ready together."

"Together and for the hereafter," he gives that snickery little giggle of his, his stomach rising and falling beneath your ear, and you can feel him calming under the pronouncement that he'll never be alone. "Thay, Kurlth, don't you mithth being a kid?"

You tweak his nose again, harder. "We're still kids, numbskull," you lie.

You know you raise suspicions when Mituna lets it slip that you're the one who helped his trembling fingers figure out gun reassemblage so quickly after the first abortive attempts under Mr. Captor's critical eye. You honestly suspect most of the fumbling had to do with Mituna's reaction to the critical eye, but Ma Leijon sits you down one afternoon, and tells you to put together a variety of things you didn't even know existed. You know the mechanics of most of them, sure. There are only so many ways to send a bullet flying. But some leave you mystified, and others you pretend not to understand just for safety's sake.

She looks at your work hard. "Kozel, where did you learn this?"

"I like taking things apart," you shrug. "It gets to be a bit of a habit, learning how to stitch things back together so no one knows what you did."

"Huh," is her only comment. She lets you go without saying another word.

Next Sunday, Father Vantas takes you aside to talk about the merits of non-violence, which seems a little pointless given the fact you're all eating Sunday dinner in a home with a whole group of bootleggers, but some of his lecture resonates just a bit. The effectiveness of a word in the right place, for example. You can get behind that. A word in the right place is how you prefer to operate, when you think about it. Sure, Dedushka Kozel taught you never to shy away from protecting what's yours, but it occurs to you that you don't have to shy away if no one is willing to take you on due to a few well placed words.

Some of the younger kids gang up on Gamzee. Well, not gang up. Meulin's little sister and the usually kitchen bound daughter of Mama M were sitting and discussing whatever dimestore novel they had nicked from their respective mothers' bookcases and Gamzee tried to amble into the conversation in his way, not having actually read the book, but wanting to pal around. And somehow a discussion of scandalous families ended up in pointed questions being asked about Gamzee's parents, and you are trying to tear yourself away from the lecture on non-violence, but Father Vantas has Kankri's knack for holding onto an audience for much longer than they want to be held.

Luckily, as Gamzee stumbles through a confused account of Dedushka Kozel's visits, which he remembers with much more kindness than you ever did—when did the old goat give out sweets to Gamzee? When did he ever do anything but bleat about wanting more tea?—the littlest of the Vantas clan of very distant relatives comes scrabbling over. You thought he was there for the gossip, and are considering just marching over there, even if it will create a scene and might make these people to ask where you come from, and if you actually are Roman Catholic.

But, when Gamzee winds down with "haven't been on with seeing him for a while," the little guy holds up a hand, snarling at the other two, "Can't you smug grin faces see he's less interested in talking about it than in brushing that almighty mess of hair?!"

"Oh, I don't really give it much mind," Gamzee tries to dampen the righteous anger. "It is just a thing that happens, after all. Lots of things happen, all the time."

It is like wisdom from another realm. Something in you hurts less, when you think about it that way, so you do. It was just something that happened. Don't be angry about it. You are all about things happening. You are all about not feeling angry. Anger gets in the way and clouds your judgment, and you don't have time for that. Things are happening.

Mostly they happen to other people. You sometimes get told off to come along when Meulin and her ma meet people in shadowy rooms and you learn that while Ma Leijon believes in the right word in the right place, she also believes in getting physical if necessary. It's a balancing act between the Sunday words that you know she loves and believes in more than you ever will, and the fact that her world just does not work like that.

It's a little easier working with Mr. Captor. He doesn't glare at you suspiciously whenever you spend too long talking with Mituna. On the other hand, while finding new stashing points and learning the secrets of the warehouse network is fascinating and leaves you eager for more, Ma Leijon's work is definitely more exciting. You like going into a room and sizing up the occupants without a single person realizing that you see and hear everything. You're young and at best a goon, and no one takes you seriously. One day they'll regret it, but for now it suits your purposes.

You have a steady flow of cash. Gamzee is learning to cook, though you still do the shopping. You're learning a useful trade. You've got your cadre, though they think they've got you in theirs, but that's all right because you like it when other people think they're in control. You're a necessary part but not a risk or threat. The world, despite Mituna's worries about the number of dirty cops who are turning on their accomplices, and the end of childhood, is working out for you.

And then, on Meulin's sixteenth birthday, during the party at the manse with cake and honest to goodness sugar frosting—which Gamzee is painting on his twelve year old face after Karkat told him to, (and then splutters "I was only being metaphorical you lame brain God awful mess of a human being! MAMA M!")—the family opens the door on officers with an arrest warrant for Mr. Captor, and another warrant to search this house in particular.

People are standing around, frozen in shock, and Mr. Captor slowly puts down the two slices of cake he was pretending not to give to his youngest boy. You see a man in a trench coat and a derby taking a gun out of his pocket. Father Vantas sees it, too, and he lunges.

There's screaming. There's blood. There's a lot of yelling and shots are being fired, and party goers dive to the floor and hide behind the furniture. You can see the limp bodies, and you know everyone else is seeing them too, and it's a pity and a tragedy that it has to end this way, but it's not going to end this way for you, or Gamzee, who is cowering by the stairs. You remember the apple tree.

Mituna screams suddenly and tries to run to the dining room table where his father is down, clutching at his side. It's a sound of little terrier fury and you want to watch him demolish everyone in his path, But Meulin grabs him by the collar, and forces his head down. You hear men reloading and you know you don't have any more chances.

You throw the armchair you were using as cover into the center of the room, and take off for the stairs, forcing Meulin to come along or find new cover. No one is ready for the armchair to attack them. The trigger happy shoot it, before even noticing that you and Gamzee, who has clutched onto Karkat like a limpet, and Karkat is dragging Sollux along, and Meulin, who won't let go of Mituna, though he is fighting with every tooth and nail, and screaming obscenities about her that would make Mama M break his awkward teeth.

Your legs eat the stairs for breakfast. You're flying down the hall for the nursery. You're crashing into the shut window, and snarling and swearing at the sash. Meulin slams her fist down on the frame hard, and the inner balance shifts or something, because it suddenly flies right up.

You look at the still struggling Mituna, nod to Meulin, and toss him toward the apple tree first. Sollux flies after him without needing a helping hand, and Meulin shoves Karkat toward the window despite his desperate hold on the wall paper. There are voices on the stairs. Foot steps. Gamzee hops up, and jumps, yelling "It's really easy, bro!"

You wait until you can see him slithering through the branches like a snake, and then you leap. Your landing on the limb reaching out toward the window is accompanied by a threatening groan that gives you sick making visions of falling. You swing yourself to another branch and toward the wall where Gamzee is sitting. You land on the solid brick, and glance back, just in time to see Meulin jumping with Karkat in her arms. You think she's got to be part cat because she lands on the points of her toes, you'd swear, and runs down the tree branch to the trunk, and then leaps again over the wall.

There is shouting as you clump for a second at the base of the wall, and then, there are footsteps, and you, or Meulin, or maybe both of you together yell "Run!" And a small mob of children pelts down the street.

You don't have time to separate and blend with the crowds on sidewalk and on stoops. You don't have time to plan a rendezvous point and reconvene. You just run. Meulin takes the lead for a moment, taking the group down the first alley she sees, over garbage cans and through puddles, and then up two side streets, but you're getting further and further from the crowds you want around. Surely everyone is going to notice the group of running children, particularly Mituna who is crying now. You all need to be walking, you all need not to be suspicious. You all need—

Gamzee falls behind, tripping over his shoolaces in the middle of the next alley, and you come to a screeching halt. You're broad enough now that you block everyone behind you as you pick up your little brother. Karkat trembles and wheezes, his hands on his knees, and as Meulin slowly jogs back, he says exactly what you are thinking.

"This isn't going to work! Where are we going? Do any of you thick headed, arrogant obnoxious excuses for adults have any _idea_ where we're going?!"

Meulin shifts uncomfortably, looking at Mituna. "None of Ma's hidey holes is safe. I saw a lady I know is supposed to be dirty in among the crowd. She knows about a bunch of secrets. Probably your Daddy's safe spots, too."

"Lady Cop Thir Glareth-A-Lot?" Mintuna sniffs damply. "Thhe does."

"SO WHY DID YOU DRAG US ALL THIS WAY THEN?!" Karkat explodes. "DO YOU THINK WE'RE GOING TO BE TREATED NICELY FOR MAKING THE PORK RUN AFTER US?! WE CAN'T USE ANY CHURCHES IN THE AREA. THEY SHOT FATHER VANTAS! Oh God," he stares at the brickwork and trails off. “Oh God.”

No one has an answer. Sollux is gulping air. He doesn't speak much, except to criticize, and Mituna, who usually has some, idea looks like he needs to punch something before he can think. Meulin just looks up at the sky and blinks quickly. "We can't go to Porrim, either. Her work is already in jeopardy if Mama M gets charged as an accessory."

Karkat groans. "What's going to happen to Kanaya and Nepeta?"

"If their bodies aren't lead carrying, you mean?" you ask nastily, because you know how to make them turn on you. Then they'll have to turn _to_ you, and you need that now.

So far Meulin has been the calm, collected one, using her boundless energy to get out, to keep everyone together and alive. She's thinking of solutions, but you know she's on the edge of a breakdown as spectacular as Mituna's, and if she breaks down, you're the only one left who hasn't.

There's a strangled sob, and you whip your head around, playing the part of soft concern, though it is Sollux who hands her a hanky, and pretends to believe the smile she's hanging grimly onto despite the tears.

"You're a colossal smug ass waste of space JERK!" Karkat screams, though he, too is tipping towards blubbering. "You got us into this mess by tossing that chair, and now you're wrecking—"

You put a finger to his lips as though he's Gamzee or Mituna, and you smile very very softly. "Shhhhhhh. Cool the rage parade. I know it's been a day of trial. Now, let me think."

It's a risk. You have control now. You're in command. But Mituna's the heir, and Meulin the heiress. You've lost your income today, and not all the pillow savings in the world are going to keep you going. Still, if you invite them all in, they'll be on your ground, planning what to do on your territory, and you'll have the final say.

"That way I see the game, I'm not connected directly to your little family, and I don't think anyone would recognize me or mine. So, my place would be the natural succor in this time of troubles. Are you following with the sparkling picture that I am painting?"

Meulin nods, breathing out and then blowing her nose. "Alright, which way?"

You have them.

You lead them toward your neighborhood, through the little German enclave, and skirting an area you know is too English for kids with the last name of Leijon and Captor to get a good reception. They climb the steps of your apartment in the setting August sun, and you take them in.

Sollux takes one look around and declares "Thith plathe ith a dump."

You scowl briefly, but Gamzee just laughs. "Don't be all getting down on the old place. Sure, it's a little worn around the edges, but it'll keep a bod warm and dry."

"You're not even electrified!" Sollux protests, eying the gas lamps against the green wall paper.

"We got an ice box," you mutter, heading toward the spare bedroom. It was nothing more than Desdushka Kozel's office, and is full of dust, but the couch is big enough for a bed. "I'll take it," Meulin volunteers when Karkat and Sollux make gagging sounds, and you finally promise them Gamzee's bed. You insist Gamzee and Mituna take your bed, and you'll figure something out, or squash them both in the middle of the night. It doesn't get you the laugh you want. You offer food, any time anyone gets hungry. You catch Gamzee shaking his head urgently at that. You don't even bother to frown. You are a _fine_ cook.

For a while you all sit around, nothing more to say. Gamzee decides to take Karkat and Sollux on another grand tour. Meulin smiles wanly as they wander off. "I wish we knew more."

"We will. When the dust settles," you say.

Mituna slouches in his chair. Meulin looks at her hands.

"I should have grabbed Nepeta."

"She was half way to the library when Mama M opened the door."

"I should have grabbed her," she repeats. You don't bother reasoning again.

Mituna gets up, and strides to the bathroom. After a while, Meulin starts singing softly. "Happy birthday to me. Happy birthday to me."

You laugh at the utter joke of it, and try to sing along, "Happy birthday dear Meulin, happy—"

"JUTHT THUT THE FUCK UP ALREADY," the bathroom door rebounds from the wall and Mituna is standing there, shaking, water dripping down his face. "JUTHT THUT UP, YOU THTUPID BITCH! WHAT THE HELL DO YOU KNOW! HOW DARE YOU BE THAD! YOUR MOTHER WATH ALIVE WHEN WE THAW HER LATHT! YOU'VE GOT THOME HOPE. BUT YOU'RE JUTHT THITTING THERE WHINING ABOUT YOUR DUMB THUPID BIRTHDAY AND YOUR DUMB THUPID THITHTER. WHAT DO YOU EVEN KNOW ABOUT ANYTHING?! YOU'VE BEEN HAVING EVERYTHING HANDED TO YOU—"

You rise like a rocket, and propel Mituna out the door. He shouts and screams at you, dragging everyone to this dump, smirking and smiling all the time, and he's still got Father Vantas' blood on his face! What would you know about facing down the death of your loved ones, you hollow sick sonofabitch!

Sometimes it's better to let these things run their course, but eventually even you can't take having the words you've been thinking all these years hurled right back at you and you put a finger to his lips. You see the blood he's talking about, and you get out your handkerchief and clean it off. He sits sullen and hot eyed in the mess of his tantrum, and mutters an apology for having probably made your parents the least wanted neighbors in the neighborhood.

You stare at the sunset for a moment, and then admit to him words you've never spoken. "No one'll bother with my parents. Not a sight nor a hint nor a hair of them since Gamzee came along into this world. Just me and Gamzee. Dedushka Kozel lit out years ago, and I think he's in the river now, if you want the truth. The rest are buried six feet under, or, if they're not, I wish with every heart beat that they will be."

"Oh," Mituna stares at the sunset, too. "No wonder you and Gam-zee-zee have two roomth pluth a guetht bed. God. I thuck."

"Yeah."

"You're thuppothed to thay I don't."

"But you do, numbskull. You can't shout at the birthday girl with a missing sister and not suck. You can't pretend like your Da is dead. Wounded we saw. But he might not be dead. Little sick miracle that might be, because he's almost certainly for the hoosegow, but you just acted the part of worst little sucker in this den."

Mituna shoves you, glaring. "Yeah. And you made Meulin cry. I _thaw_ you think before you thpoke. You thuck, too."

He always sees exactly what you don't want him to, you think, numbly staring down through iron stairs. "I make up for it in other ways, my brother."

He breathes out, and his head hits the brick work side of the building. He's staring at the sky. "What are we gonna do, Kurlth?"

"Give the cruel world the rest of the day to revel in its ill-deserved victory. Oh, and you're going to get your hands and knees involved when you apologize to Meulin like a rude ass sucker should," you're in command.

He snickers violently, and you press your forehead against the railing, mindful that you're on a rickety fire escape and Mituna is shaking enough to possibly give the rusted out nails holding it onto the building a run for their money. You want to stay this way, and not go back to anything. He's your rude ass sucker, who was right, childhood has ended. You promised him he'd never be alone. You just have to learn how to trigger those explosions when you need them.

One day he might betray you, a suspicious voice that sounds like Dedushka Kozel in your head reminds you. He's clever. Shut up, you tell the voice. He's your rude ass sucker who will stand up for a stranger in a heartbeat, and for a friend in less than that. You don't know anyone else like him and you never will.

That night, you are sitting at the kitchen table, thinking very hard, when Meulin comes in, a few stacks of paper in her hand. "Kurloz?"

You look up.

"Have you ever looked at the stuff in that writing desk?"

"Put it back," you order, glowering at her. You don't know what she's found, but you can see Makara letter head at the top. You don't need he to figure things out right now. You're still planning how you're going to get your hands on all the information you need tomorrow.

"Gamzee has a real inheritance coming to him," she presses. "It could be useful—"

"DON'T TRY TO FIX THINGS," you don't yell, but you lower your voice to the kind of threatening growl Ma Leijon used to use when she was real ticked, and it works the charm on Meulin, too.

She shuts her gob, but she doesn't sit down. She just narrows her eyes. "Do you really believe I don't see it? Do you really think you're fooling _anyone_? You don't have to be living on the edge, and you know it. Jeez, I remember when you used to steal food from us. You didn't have to do that. You're too proud to ask, fine, but you had a little brother to take care of, and you chose your pride instead. Has it never crossed your mind, once, that all of us might care for each other, you included, like normal—"

"Your Ma spent one afternoon testing me on my ability to reassemble tommy guns. The orbit of normal and our fine selves are whole star systems apart. Put back those papers. I'm seeing to it that Gamzee gets the inheritance he deserves."

"Nearly getting shot at a birthday party? Hiding out with the sons and daughters of wanted criminals?"

It's a nasty parting blow, but you just let it land. It was a mistake bringing them so close in, but you've got plans. You need these dupes to see them through. Boy, are you wishing your relatives some eternal rest, though.

In the morning you send Sollux and Meulin as the fastest runners and least likely to be caught to see what they can find out around the parish. You take Mituna around to the docks, in case there is any news there. Gamzee and Karkat get to mind house.

When you reconvene the news is mixed. Kanaya and Kankri (and technically Porrim, though no one knows where she is) have already been declared wards of New York State, and there's apparently a foster home already set up. Karkat, as a distant Vantas cousin has some next of kin. Apparently said kin is coming up by ferry from New Jersey because he received a telegram about this yesterday. All this Meulin got out of her mother's cousin, Ms. De Leon who wears men's trousers, and is already taking care of Nepeta. She'll take Meulin, too. You'll be happy to hand Karkat over, he's a handful, but Meulin was supposed to be your key.

Here's the locked box of mystery that you've found. Word around the docks is that the Maryam Gang needs to be taken down. Someone's moving into the territory with a ruthlessness that has everyone running scared. Different outfits are snapping up the business, and you ponder ways to get them back, if you're not doing it with the Leijon name. Well, you've got a Captor, and a promise made years ago.

You sit down next to Mituna on the fire escape when you're finished telling Meulin what you know. She's looking into the neighborhood skyline from the door. "So, we were set up."

"Theemth like," Mituna sounds disgusted. "No one careth about thome kidth like uth."

"Too bad for them, but a great man said that fools and suckers are born every minute," you grin, turning to stare at the three. "No one's impounded _Freedom's Stars_ _,_ yet. I think it's meant to be picked up by our rival. But, it's got all those useful little secret places all up in it, and Mituna knows how to sail it."

Mituna's eyes widen. "You're crazy! You're crazy. We're—You're not even thixteen yearth old yet, Kurlth!"

Meulin's eyes were shining. "No, he's right, Mituna! I've got some contacts, and they're practically used to dealing with just me and Kurloz by this point."

“Your ma's still missing," you say, an evil little plan for the evil big men who think you're nothing but a young goon forming in your mind. Why fight at all when you can kill resolve with words alone? "We can _use_ that shadow of rumor that's tearing the underworld apart. People are _scared_. They don't want to get a visit from Ma Leijon, if they were them as got her squeeze a cold dark grave.

Meulin stiffens and then smiles, Cheshire like, if invisibility was hollowness. Still, she picks up the line that is lying before her, as though it's a piece of hope. “We'll keep up the demand, Mituna, you'll bring in the supplies. Heck, we don't even need the boat for the weapons trade. We might even get so good that we'll be selling guns to the people who sold us out."

It's a terrible plan. It's a risk. But you go with it. You've gotten them this far, and it's all about making sure they can make your little brother have a good life. You'll make it happen.

And you do, sort of. By the time your late December birthday rolls around, Mituna's got a foot wedged in the alcohol trade, and Meulin's got more than an arm and a leg in switching out guns and learning how to stay one step ahead of the new detective work.

Sometimes you cut it close. Dangerous close. You nearly got Meulin caught by the pork once, because you were helping Mituna unload contraband. Mituna almost got lost in a storm some weeks later. But in November Mituna managed to pick up another drifting kid, by the name of Latula, and between the four of you, you manage.

Latula is a loud tough girl and she fits in with the docks where Mituna grabbed her, though you have to grin a bit because you know she was playing your old old game of sidle in and hope no one notices. There was an empire waiting to be forged amid the ever shifting refuse clinging to the piers, and you do still keep a weather eye to it.

Still, she's there and between the two of you, you can run interference for the people taking the real risks. It works. You're almost ready, almost strong enough to be a family in your own right. It's good, working for a family business. You're in control of the rumors already beginning to paint you as such. In another few years you hope to be selling secrets in the dark, because you think that's a surer business than booze, which only needs a vote to make it legal again.

But with 1926 still hanging tantalizingly on the air, beckoning for you in 10 days' time, you're not too worried about the shifting future. Mituna might grumble about it—he thinks forward, you've realized, but only for the big things. He doesn't anticipate the little reactions you are always watching. Perhaps this is why you were made for one another.

Despite the cold and slush, you're feeling confident as you walk back to the cheap base of operations you're renting with help from Ms. De Leon. It's nothing more than a place for Mituna to lay his head down, and keep away from the concerned relative—“total dope”—who has taken Sollux under their wing.

Mituna is still waving to Latula as you both cross a crowded street, which is bustling even though the sun has set. You stop a moment on the sidewalk, thinking of a time when cars were so rare Gamzee jumped in alarm if one drove by. He's not jumping any more. You've got a pile of notes saying he isn't showing up for his classes on time, and you've got to get that sorted out, but maybe it's time to get him into the family business anyway. He'll be thirteen in January.

“So,” Mituna grins. He's finally growing out of his lisp. You don't ever tell him that, because it will remind him that he spits his 's'es the same way his father does. “Wanna go looking for presents tomorrow? Christmas isn't too far away now, and we gotta bring something.”

“Severed head of our furious enemies?” you suggest, grinning back, making him laugh. One of the reasons for your confidence is that someone has decided to target your little group and it feels good to have something to focus on and fight against. You file that information away, of course. Later you might need to give someone else something to focus on and fight. Confidence is a multi-edged sword. Still, there's someone out there who thinks you're worth taking down.

You walk down city streets with Mituna at your side, and you feel, in the dark, as though you own them. You do find another one of those crappy newspaper clipping notes telling you to cease and desist your operation tapped to the door when you arrive at the small bunk house Mituna is now using. You and Mituna roll your eyes at each other.

"I wish the man would learn some righteous terrifying imagery to pepper these little curse notes with," you say, reading 'die. you will die. you clowns will absolutely die.' "I mean, is a glittery angel of death swinging a scythe from on high too much to ask for, these days?"

Mituna opens the door, and in the darkness, something flares. You smell smoke. You shove Mituna behind you. He's your boss, technically. You're his body guard, certainly.

She comes at you wreathed in cigarette smoke with a club. You think it might even be one of your own floorboards she's using. All you have time to register is the blur of motion, and then there is a smack to your chest, and she is gone.

Mituna helps you stagger in and clean off the place where a nail tore through the front of your shirt and tried to carve you a new belly button. You don't go back home to check on Gamzee that night. He's nearly thirteen, he can take care of himself.

The death threats start getting worse. Probably because your little gang won't give up the tenuous niche that you have carved. You get more followers. Meulin finds buyers desperate enough to go with a small tough crew. You start cutting your eye teeth on the people targeting your captain and targeting the Moggy Moll, as Meulin is playfully calling herself when she's adrenaline drunk and tired of fighting. She wants to know why someone wants your small corner of the pie. You shrug, why do bad things happen? Fate is the ever ready companion of misery. Mituna thinks it's because your rival is small time and sees you as the easiest competition to bump off.

Nine Lives Leijon is still at large. Occasionally Ms. De Leon has mysterious news, but not much. Mituna refuses to allow newspapers in his line of sight when the news breaks that his father is going on trial. No one speaks about Father Vantas. A new preacher has replaced him, but you stopped going to church when Meulin and Mituna stop. You think Gamzee is still going, but you're not sure. A brother can do as he pleases.

No one suspects your gang is so small. It's actually growing, and growing fearsomely. At least, the power is growing, and that's all you care about. People trust Leijon smuggling. It's amazing, you think, because to look at her, sweet enough to wear bows in her hair, you wouldn't trust her with a gun. Maybe it's rumor, maybe it's the intensity Meulin can turn on, maybe it's you and Latula thugging in the background, shadows and grimness that makes people take a chubby girl with a loud voice seriously. If people like them bow their heads in respect, shadowy men think, maybe there's something to it.

Of course, there are the losers and the riff-raff. You wonder sometimes if Cronus Ampora's nose has finally healed up. The Amporas are a good family, of course. Their custom is one of the things that you count on, because it says that you all do serious business, and have ties as far as Boston. But smashing in the eldest's face in was important, because people respect those who do not mess around. Besides, there are some people the universe wants to hit. Porrim actually smiled at you when Latula recounted the tale down at Porrim's club, and even back in the bread stealing days you and Porrim were not friends. Friends in common, certainly, but you didn't trust one another, and still don't. Porrim rebels against the system, any system, and you are trying to work systems.

One bright spring day you're with Latula mooching along and scouting a new warehouse for the Bosses. You're supposed to be meeting them in the gap between a fish cannery's fence and the truck storage next door, but when you arrive, you get caught in a messy, narrow alleyway brawl. Men in black and green are falling every which way, and blood is spilling. You're about to duck out, run to intercept Meulin and Mituna before you all get caught in this mess with the bullets flying, when you see a girl.

She is a revelation that leaves you cold and makes choirs burst in your head. No matter how much you love to imagine the end of times and riddle through prophesies like a secret crossword, you've never believed in your heart and soul. But you see the girl with a cigarette in her mouth, blood red Sunday dress and her weapon swinging with all the brutality of a two by four with a couple of nails in it. Maybe the light hits her just right, or maybe this is an epiphany. You know she's here to judge you and you will be found wanting. She is going to be your end and glorious beginning. She will kill you and bring you to the hereafter. You watch her wallop a man in the back with her weapon, hear the crack and know once she's done with you, she'll destroy everyone else.

You step forward to meet her, a smile ready. You almost don't notice the man rushing for your side, but you let him run into your fist. You've forgotten your gun. Latula is fighting. Meulin appears behind this girl, and then Mituna. In the slow thrill of time delayed by shock their expressions change. The girl whacks another man so hard that he spins, and then she rushes for you.

In some ill conceived notion of heroics and loyalty and the fact that he is the kind of person who will take a punch for a friend in less than an eyeblink, Mituna lunges in front of her. She doesn't even bother to stop, but the raised wooden plank thunders down like a fist. You see red.

It's his blood in your eyes and you remember your gun but your angel without mercy is not done with her deeds this day. The nails at the very end of the club reach over Mituna's falling crumpling rag doll form and tear into your hand. Your Baretta clatters away and you scream. Wood smashes into your jaw and blood fills your mouth while darkness fills your eyes.

Later, Gamzee helps you home from the hospital, though he locks himself in his room afterward, and refuses to help you with the needle and the thread. When you go to see Mituna, head all wrapped up to keep it from splitting open, he giggles too long, and reaches out to touch the stitches. You smile when the questing finger becomes a silencing one pressed against your lips.

"Tthtthehththththt," Mituna says. "Look waht you'f done, numbthkull."

You keep smiling. Here he is, and he is yours, baptized together with you by a girl in red. He kept your promise that you wold never be alone. You glance at Boss Leijon, who looks like she is trying to be happy for both of you, and failing miserably. She is not yours yet, but she will be. Just like Mituna, who just wants you to be there.

You don't tell anyone what you know now. You're dead. Both of you are. And soon enough the angel will bring on this second life to the whole city. The whole country, if you can help it. The whole world in your prayers. And you will pray every night from now on because you've finally found a devotion that goes beyond yourself.


End file.
